


leave the room (with a little dignity)

by moonix



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Asexuality Spectrum, Body Image, Cats, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Housemates, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pining, Recovery, Self-Harm, Sexuality, Shame, Struggling with Sexuality, Therapy, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27979563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonix/pseuds/moonix
Summary: They’re not a couple. That sounds too trivial. Even best friends doesn’t really describe it. They’re—Neil is Andrew’s person, just like Andrew is Neil’s, there’s no doubt about that. It’s just that Neil is too broken to fulfil all of his functions, and so they make do.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 55
Kudos: 625





	leave the room (with a little dignity)

**Author's Note:**

> Phew. Well. This fic did not turn out how I imagined, let me tell you. It is not a happy fic, though it has soft squishy parts and a hopeful ending. Before you start, get yourself a cup of your preferred hot beverage (make it strong), release any tension in your jaw, grab a comforting blanket and mind you don't trip on the warnings on your way in. <3
> 
> Title is from the movie Shortbus. Don't look too closely at the backstory or it might crumble. We are delicate in this AO3 tonight.
> 
> Content warnings: mental health issues, self-harm (no cutting but things like pulling at/tearing out hair and skin pinching), body image struggles, self-hatred, past childhood trauma/abuse/neglect, issues with sexuality/sexual functions, discussion of one-night stands (but not cheating)

“What about him?”

“Too tall.”

“That one, by the bar?”

“Nah.”

“Okay, tough crowd tonight,” Neil says, stretching until his spine pops. “We can go back home if you changed your mind. Watch that chess show Kevin was on about.”

“Hmm,” Andrew hums, still surveying the room. Neil observes the forced relaxedness of his position, the careful styling of his hair, the faint outline of a condom in the pocket of his skinny jeans, and knows that they won’t watch the show about chess tonight.

“Well, hello there,” he says. “Fresh meat over by the door. Jackpot.”

Andrew looks, and looks a little longer. Neil leans back in his seat, smug. He can always tell.

“Be right back,” Andrew says eventually, tapping the coaster against the table as he gets up. Neil makes a mocking little fist pumping motion.

“Go get some, tiger.”

Andrew throws him an unimpressed look, then moves with practised ease, slotting in beside the guy at the bar before Roland can so much as say hi. Neil watches a reprise of a familiar scene play out—subtle gestures, few words, heated looks. It takes no time at all for the two of them to disappear into the bathrooms. Neil drags his eyes away and meets Roland’s, drops his gaze abruptly to the table, the sticky outlines of glasses, the dog-eared menu, the scorch mark that identifies it as their usual.

It’s fine.

It’s absolutely, totally fine, no matter what Roland thinks.

Roland doesn’t know that Neil had his chance, years ago. Andrew asked him, and Neil turned him down, and that was that. Life went on. Neil meant it when he said no, and he doesn’t regret it.

It doesn’t even bother him, the thought of two people getting each other off in that bathroom while he sits at the table and flicks the coaster around and around in his hand. It doesn’t have anything to do with him. Andrew has needs and wants, and he takes what he’s offered, and then he goes home with Neil.

That’s the deal.

They’re not a couple. That sounds too trivial. Even best friends doesn’t really describe it. They’re—Neil is Andrew’s person, just like Andrew is Neil’s, there’s no doubt about that. It’s just that Neil is too broken to fulfil all of his functions, and so they make do.

Besides, Neil prides himself on being a pretty good wingman. He’s directly or indirectly responsible for most of the guys Andrew’s pulled over the years. And he’s looking forward to dissecting this one’s performance with Andrew later, if Andrew is up for it.

He looks up just in time to see Andrew exit the bathroom, his hair slightly ruffled, his collar askew. As usual, his expression is just as blank as always, but there’s a subtle shine to his eyes and a slightly rosy hue to his cheeks that Neil has learned to read. Success, then.

He abandons his empty glass and meets Andrew halfway to the door.

-

_Disgusting_.

_Disgusting boy_.

Neil is sitting on the cold bathroom floor, pulling at his hair.

When that doesn’t help, he pinches his skin until it’s red and sore. It’s not as effective, because his fingernails are shorter than his mom’s used to be, so he twists harder. His mouth makes a sound, something like a whimper or a sob, and he muffles it against his shoulder.

_Revolting. Dirty. You should be ashamed._

He is. Shame fills him up, clogs his throat, makes it hard to breathe. It takes up so much room in him he feels like he’s about to burst and leak it all over the floor. Like when his mother locked him in his room and he tried, he tried so hard to keep it in, stomach cramping up desperately until it just gave out, wet warmth running down his legs and soaking through his pants.

He fists a hand in the coarse tangle of his pubic hair and _pulls_.

There’s a knock on the door, and Neil stills.

“Neil,” Andrew says.

Slowly, Neil uncurls his body, pulls his hand out from his pants and holds it away. He needs to wash it, but getting up requires too much energy right now, so he just sits there, exhausted.

“I am coming in,” Andrew says, then waits so Neil can object.

Neil doesn’t object.

Andrew comes in.

The shame stirs in him again, a writhing, squirming mass, Neil thinks Andrew must see it spilling out of every opening. Andrew takes one look at him and sits down next to him on the floor, wincing at the coldness of the tiles.

“Bad night?” he asks, eyeing the red patches on Neil’s arms where he pinched himself. Neil nods and swallows, but the shame just keeps pushing back up again, coating the back of his tongue like bile.

Andrew reaches out and takes Neil’s hand, pulls it in his lap. Then he makes to snag the other one, the compromised one, and Neil yanks it further away.

“Don’t.”

Andrew drops his hand back to his lap, cups them both around Neil’s clean one, a protective cage. His skin is so warm. Neil wants to be held like this everywhere, all of Andrew wrapped around him, protecting him, Andrew’s hands cupped around the most secret parts of him like a shield—but he can’t ask that of him.

“Tell me,” Andrew offers, pressing his thumbs into the heel of Neil’s hand, massaging out the stiffness.

Neil can’t say it.

It’s not the words themselves: _I jerked off in the shower_ , that would be easy to say; no, it’s the fact that they’re about _him_.

He knows, logically, that Andrew has probably jerked off in this shower, too. Or at least in his bedroom, before using the shower, or the sink. He knows, logically, that there’s nothing wrong with it, there’s nothing wrong with him.

Except for how everything is wrong with him.

He works his jaw, but nothing comes loose. Even saying _I feel so disgusting_ would not adequately convey the slimy, gagging feeling inside him, the rash-like need to be touched anyway that burns under his skin. He swallows hard and his throat clicks.

“Okay,” Andrew says, calm and unfazed. “What do you need?”

For a moment, Neil considers telling him—unleashing the slithering, grasping mass on him—but Andrew, who worked so hard to kick free of his own personal morass long ago, does not deserve to be dragged back under.

“Just,” Neil croaks, “water.”

“Tea?” Andrew suggests, helping him stand. Neil nods and steps to the sink, aware of Andrew’s eyes on him as he lathers his hands with soap, counting the seconds, scrubbing the oils from his skin. The soap is blue and smells like eucalyptus and thyme. Neil watches the pretty teal-coloured foam swirl down the drain as he washes it off, and then Andrew is there with a clean towel.

Neil lets him dry his hands for him, feeling paperthin.

“Tea,” Andrew says again, hanging the towel up to dry and tugging on Neil’s sleeve.

Neil follows meekly in his wake, dropping down on the sofa while Andrew continues on into the kitchen and rummages around for tea bags, milk and honey. When he brings over the mugs, the surface is speckled with a dusting of cinnamon, and Neil wraps his clean hands around his mug and squeezes until he can’t take the heat anymore.

“Sorry,” he says, “for waking you up.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Andrew says, blowing gently on his tea.

Neil sinks deeper into the cushions. He feels heavy and small at the same time, messy and clean. He wonders if he can sniff his hands without Andrew noticing, just to make sure he used enough soap. Wishes Andrew would pick him up and carry him to bed, but not Neil’s bed, because that’s compromised as well, and he’s too tired to change the sheets.

“Go back to bed,” Andrew says. “You’re falling asleep.”

“Am not,” Neil protests, eyes barely open.

“Come on,” Andrew says, putting down his mug, but Neil scoots further away to the other side of the sofa and curls into himself. Andrew looks at him and shrugs. “Fine. Sleep here for all I care.”

But he doesn’t get up, and one of his hands rests on the arch of Neil’s foot, warm and grounding. Neil closes his eyes, and breathes out.

-

Andrew often drives Neil when he has therapy.

Neil knows that Andrew knows that Neil would find excuses otherwise, and some days Neil is too anxious or exhausted to drive himself. Andrew never asks him about his sessions, and Neil never tells him, and they usually get take-out on the way home and watch a movie.

Today, the session before Neil’s runs late. He hates sitting in the waiting room with its abstract art of vulvas and phalluses, the obnoxious ticking of the clock. When Dr Murphy finally waves him in, he’s almost relieved.

Therapy is always draining, but today is particularly gruelling. He can barely get the words out. They finish almost twenty minutes past his usual time because Neil still paid for a full session even if they started late, and when he comes out of the office Andrew is there in the waiting room, staring at one of the vulva paintings.

Neil stops.

Andrew turns around.

Usually he waits outside in the car, because parking spaces are hard to come by in this area. Neil’s never mentioned that Dr Murphy is a sex therapist, though it’s possible that Andrew has seen the sign on the door while waiting before. In any case, there’s no surprise on his face. He just nods at the door and they leave, going down the two flights of stairs, out through the door, down the street to where Andrew’s car is parked.

Neil gets into the passenger seat.

Andrew starts the car.

Rain patters on the window and Neil sinks into the seat, wrapping his arms around him. Andrew turns the windshield wipers on and low music spills out of the radio and they join the slow progress of rush hour traffic.

Neil looks down at the broken insects of his hands in his lap and opens his mouth a few times, but nothing comes out.

“You don’t have to explain,” Andrew murmurs, gazing at the rain-washed street outside. The red light turns green but the traffic crawls forward so slowly that it changes again before they reach the crossing.

“I know,” Neil says. The shame burrows under his skin and he rubs his hands over his arms to dispel the feeling. Andrew, misinterpreting it as Neil being cold, turns up the heating.

“I shouldn’t have come up,” he says quietly, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

“It doesn’t matter,” Neil says, even though he feels like everything is suddenly off-kilter and wrong. Andrew wasn’t supposed to know, or at least, Neil wasn’t supposed to know that Andrew knows.

Now it’s a thing. A thing that can’t be un-thinged.

Andrew is quiet for a while. The rain sinks its claws into the music, shredding it like a napkin between nervous fingers. They take a turn and traffic thins a little. Soon they’ll pass by the curry place Neil likes.

“I tried a sex therapist too once,” Andrew says, pulling smoothly into a gap that should be too small for his car but somehow isn’t. “There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Neil’s fingers twitch.

_You should be ashamed._

He thinks of his own come sliding down his hands, swirling down the drain in thick globs. He thinks of the coarse, oily feel of his pubic hair between his fingers, how there’s more growing in the spaces between his legs, like weeds. The weirdly soft, crinkled skin on his testicles and the slightly crooked jut of his erect penis, the way it bulges against the fabric of his pants, the greasy smell of his own arousal.

_You should be ashamed_.

“Neil,” Andrew says, still sitting in the car. Rain sluices down the windows, it’s really pelting down now. Even just the few steps to the curry shop will probably soak them to the bone.

“I’m fine,” Neil says automatically.

He’s not, though. There’s something wrong with him. Something deeply, fundamentally, grossly wrong. If Andrew knew-

“Stop,” Andrew says. His voice is so clear and sharp, it slices through the gloom. Neil tears his gaze away from the window, notices the way he’s curled into himself, only restricted by the seat belt which is digging into his clavicle.

Andrew reaches out slowly and undoes the seat belt for him. Neil yearns for him to do more, to touch him, hold him, weigh him down; but he doesn’t think he could stand it right now. He always feels so messed up after therapy.

“What do you want?” Andrew asks him, and for a moment Neil is thunderstruck, thinking Andrew could see his thoughts written plain on his face. Then he remembers the curry place.

“The one you had last time,” he murmurs. “With the plum sauce. But spicier.”

“Mm,” Andrew hums, rummaging around for an umbrella. He’s still in his work clothes, the crisp suit he has to wear to the office of the law firm he does admin for. Neil brought it to the dry-cleaner for him last week.

He likes doing Andrew’s laundry for him. Handling his dirty clothes, inhaling the faint echo of Andrew’s after-shave on them, peeling forgotten receipts or nicotine gum wrappers out of his pockets, smiling at the splash of tomato sauce on his sweater from when they made pasta together. It’s just one more thing that’s wrong with Neil. One in a long, long list.

“I’ll come with,” he says, not wanting to be left alone.

Andrew gets out of the car and holds the umbrella over both of their heads as they hurry across the street. The curry shop is soothingly familiar with its whitewashed walls, spiced steam, faded menu mounted above the counter, and humming refrigerator in the corner. Andrew orders for them while Neil gets their drinks. It’s Andrew’s turn to pay, and Neil watches the way his blunt, knobby fingers dig through his wallet for change to put in the tip jar. Sometimes he wishes they would dig into him the same way, open him up and clean him out, poke into every crevice and pull everything loose that’s buried in there. Scoop out the shame that’s festering in him until he’s emptied out and hollow.

_Disgusting._

They go home and eat their curry, and then Neil takes a shower and scrubs at his skin until it feels raw and delicate. He finds Andrew in the living room, setting up the TV, and wraps himself tight in one of the blankets before sinking down into the sofa.

“What are we watching?” he asks.

“Shortbus,” Andrew says.

“Excuse you,” Neil says, “I’m taller than you.”

Andrew huffs and tosses one of the jingly cat toys at him that litter the floor of their apartment. It bounces off Neil’s blanket cocoon and rolls under the sofa. Sir trots out from the kitchen to investigate—he likes to sleep on top of the fridge—but ultimately decides it’s not worth it, and lies back down on the floor with a yawn.

Andrew hesitates with his finger on the remote.

“It’s a film about sex,” he says.

Neil frowns.

“You want to watch porn?”

“No,” Andrew says. “It’s not porn. Just… explicit. Are you okay with that?”

“Would you have asked me that before you knew I’m seeing a sex therapist?” Neil asks bitterly, turning on his front so he can pet Sir, who is perched just out of range.

“Yes,” Andrew says.

Neil smushes his face in the cushion, drizzles his fingertips against Sir’s soft head, tickles his ears.

“I don’t care,” he finally says. “Let’s just watch it.”

Andrew starts the film. Neil isn’t sure what he expected. Usually when movies or TV shows feature sex scenes Neil stays detached; just out of range, like a cat. He knows, of course, that most people have sex, enjoy it, even. But the movie isn’t about that. The characters on screen throw Neil’s own frustration back at him in different colours and shapes like a kaleidoscope. They stand in the way of their own satisfaction, they want things just out of their reach, always circling but never getting close. It ends like that too, still circling, and Neil doesn’t even realise he’s crying until Andrew kneels on the floor in front of the couch and puts a hand on the back of his neck.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stifle the tears, but they just keep spilling.

“Hey,” Andrew murmurs. “Scoot over?”

Neil squirms backwards a little bit, eyes still closed, and feels the sofa dip as Andrew climbs on it. There’s not enough space for both of them, so Andrew ends up coiled awkwardly around him, not actually touching him, though Neil can feel his warmth through the blanket cocoon.

It’s good.

It makes Neil feel safe and vulnerable at the same time. Then Andrew’s hand is on his face, slowly wiping at the tears, and the gentle touch just makes Neil cry harder somehow, but Andrew doesn’t stop.

One of the cats eventually jumps up and lies down on top of both of them. Andrew grumbles but doesn’t move or dislodge it, and Neil tucks his face in the crook of Andrew’s neck and takes a deep breath. He smells like home, and Neil noses further into that delicious scent, wanting to hoard it inside himself.

He dozes for a while.

When he wakes up, he feels warm and buzzy, wrapped up as he is in the blanket and Andrew’s arms, both cats asleep somewhere by his legs.

“We shouldn’t sleep on the sofa again,” Andrew mutters around a sigh that makes Neil rise and fall with the motion of his chest.

He doesn’t want to go to bed. Or, more precisely, he doesn’t want to go to his bed, which is cold and doesn’t have Andrew in it, and be alone with his body again.

He makes some sort of disagreeing noise and Andrew huffs, amused, and tucks him a little closer, massaging the back of his head. Neil wants to melt. Tomorrow is a faraway shore that he’ll wash up on eventually, but for now he allows himself to just drift.

-

Every year at the start of December, Kevin invites them all round for a bonfire in his dad’s back garden.

Every year, without fail, Neil has to go there early and help him, because he can’t get the stupid fire to light.

Neil is dressed in a sweater and one of Andrew’s fleece monstrosities overtop, the oldest one that has leather patches on the elbows sewn on by Renee. He wedges a thermos of hot chocolate in the cup holder, dumps a few blankets in the back seat, and drives over with the windows down because he’s too hot in his layers but he knows he’ll be freezing his toes off soon enough.

“I built it according to the instructions you sent me,” Kevin greets him, peeved and swaddled in his own fleece and smelling slightly singed. “I can’t figure out why it’s not working.”

He crosses his arms and hovers as Neil fiddles with the fire pit, asking the same questions he does every year, until Neil is too exasperated and sends him to help Abby out in the kitchen. Guests start arriving, bearing anything from food to alcohol to sparklers and board games, and Neil has a cup of hot chocolate waiting for Andrew as soon as he steps through the gate, the fire crackling merrily at his back.

Andrew takes a sip and hums in approval. He reaches out and pinches the threadbare fleece between his fingers, frowning.

“I thought I threw that away,” he says, like every year.

“Must have got mixed up with my laundry,” Neil replies, following the script. He feels lighter today, despite his layers. The air is crisp and clear, the sky a smooth expanse of blue-veined marble. Matt stops by for a bone-crushing hug and Neil, for once, returns it, squeezing back until Matt laughs.

“Good to see you, buddy,” Matt says, leaving his arm slung around Neil’s shoulders, accepting a cup of mulled wine from a heavily pregnant Dan and kissing her cheek.

“I’m going to live vicariously through you,” Dan sighs, rubbing her belly.

“I have hot chocolate,” Neil offers.

“No,” Andrew says, clutching the thermos. “You don’t.”

Dan laughs and holds up her hands.

“It’s fine. Renee brought options.”

“You guys got any plans for Christmas?” Matt asks, waggling his eyebrows. He’s tried to invite Neil round to theirs three times already, but Neil always put him off, saying he wanted to see what Andrew’s family would get up to.

Andrew shrugs, perches on the edge of a table. He looks good—fresh and bright-eyed, pink-nosed, artfully tousled. His sleeves reach down over his hands, the collar is zipped all the way up, past the jut of his Adam’s apple.

“Nicky and Erik are flying in for New Year’s, so Aaron and the wife are coming down from Boston,” he offers, swirling the last dregs of hot chocolate around in his cup.

“You know you’re welcome to spend Christmas Day with us,” Dan says, leaning against Matt. “Both of you.”

How the times have changed, Neil thinks. Just a couple of years ago, they were still referring to Andrew’s lot as “the monsters,” despite Neil’s best efforts.

“Yeah,” Matt says, nodding. “You’ll have to sleep in the nursery, but the bed is big enough for two people.”

Dan subtly elbows Matt in the side. Neil looks down at the ground, feeling hot. Andrew twirls his cup one more time.

“Neil should go,” he says, because he’s a filthy traitor. “If he doesn’t, he will just look sad and pine after you the whole time.”

“I will not,” Neil huffs, snagging his cup out of his hand and draining it. “Actually, I was looking forward to just spending a few quiet days at home. And you two should enjoy the last Christmas it’ll be just you. Get some sleep while you still can, and all that.”

He gestures at Dan’s belly and she scrunches up her nose and looks at Matt, radiant and happy.

“What do you think, babe? Some quality time with your wife?”

“Tempting,” Matt hums, ducking down to kiss the tip of her nose. “But, Neil…”

“Yes, yes,” Neil says, waving his hand. “I’ll come over if I find myself drowning in loneliness. But I’ll be fine, I have Andrew and the bastard babies to keep me company.”

“How are the little fur balls?”

“King puked on a grand total of three rugs yesterday, and Sir is refusing to eat his favourite wet food after we made sure to stock up enough of it to last us through an apocalypse.”

“Sounds like they’re having a blast,” Dan comments.

“Tell them about the condom fiasco,” Andrew says dryly, trying to finagle his cup out of Neil’s hand so he can pour more hot chocolate in it.

“Condom fiasco? Now that I need to hear,” Matt grins.

Neil sighs and rolls his eyes.

“There was a box of condoms,” he begins.

“In the bag of groceries, which Neil here neglected to unpack,” Andrew injects.

“For like, two minutes after we got home,” Neil says, finally relinquishing the cup. “Andrew was cleaning out the litter boxes and I was busy trying to cram yet another pint of ice-cream into our already overstuffed freezer…”

“…I keep telling you, it’s your smoothie shit that takes up all of the space…”

“…and King somehow managed to get her paws on the box of condoms, which was at the bottom of that bag that sat on the floor for less than a minute. And just to really drive home the point of how little of a fuck she gives, she tore open the box, exploded the condoms everywhere, and gnawed on the foil packets. Which is how we found ourselves driving to the emergency vet clinic at 9 pm on a weeknight, because Andrew was convinced she’d swallowed the condoms. She was fine, by the way.”

“We had to take both of them, because Sir cries if he’s separated from her for too long,” Andrew adds, clicking his tongue. “Pathetic.”

“You know what they say,” Matt says through badly-stifled laughter. “Pets tend to become more and more like their owners over time.”

“That makes us sound weirdly co-dependent,” Neil jokes.

“You are weirdly co-dependent,” Dan smirks.

“I don’t even know this guy,” Andrew says deadpan, taking a step away from Neil, who steals the thermos of hot chocolate from him in revenge.

They circle around the garden slowly, letting themselves be passed from conversation to conversation, until Andrew gets dragged into some sort of bastardised hacky sack game and Neil ends up back at the fire with a semi-frazzled Kevin.

“Here,” Kevin says solemnly, handing him a stick with a charred glob of dough wrapped around the top.

“Kevin, I hate to break it to you, but this is not actually edible,” Neil says.

“I’m still working out the perfect technique,” Kevin insists, moulding more dough around his stick and poking it in the fire. Neil can see more charred globs in there from previous experiments that must have fallen off.

“Might be better to wait until the fire’s burned down a bit,” Neil advises, absently patting his shoulder. “Just try not to burn the marshmallows this time.”

It’s Andrew’s turn across the lawn, and Neil watches and nurses that warm chocolatey feeling inside of him when Andrew lands a perfect shot.

“You still haven’t talked to him, have you?” Kevin asks, still hopefully swishing his stick bread through the fire.

“What about?” Neil tries, still watching Andrew show off his impeccable motor skills.

“You know,” Kevin says, at a loss. “You. And Andrew.”

“Me. And Andrew,” Neil repeats.

“The fact that you’re like an old married couple, except for where you’re not married and you’re not a couple.”

“So we’re just old,” Neil jokes.

“You know what I mean,” Kevin huffs. “You look at him like he hung the moon. Does he know?”

“Of course he knows,” Neil says, shuffling his feet uncomfortably.

“And does he know you want to,” he hesitates briefly, clearing his throat, “have lots of sex and cat babies with him?”

“Your stick bread is burning,” Neil says dully, and leaves him with the rest of the rapidly dwindling dough.

He wanders aimlessly for a while, picks at some food, throws chewed-up old balls for Wymack’s dogs and doesn’t look in Andrew’s direction. He’s used to the others not really getting their relationship, to Matt and Dan’s clumsy hints, Nicky’s joint Christmas gifts and eccentric choice of cards that always seem to feature scantily clad men in Santa hats. Somehow Neil never really considered the fact that they might be wondering about his and Andrew’s sex life. It sends tendrils of discomfort down his spine, and he feels weirdly exposed despite his many layers, so he escapes the suddenly overcrowded garden to the blessed quiet of the downstairs guest bathroom.

He’s found out, in the end, by Renee, who seems to have some sort of sixth sense for lost lambs that need to be brought back into the fold.

“Here,” she says, handing him a paper plate through the door. “I saved some marshmallows for you before Kevin burned them all.”

“I don’t like marshmallows,” Neil points out, and Renee’s cheek dimples as she smiles at him.

“No, but you always make sure Andrew gets some.”

“You could have just given them to him directly,” Neil says, but takes them anyway.

“He’ll appreciate them more coming from you,” Renee insists. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you since Dan’s baby shower.”

“Fine,” Neil says automatically, perching on the arm of the sofa and squidging one of the marshmallows between his fingers. “Great. I hate my job, but, you know. Could be worse. I could be kidnapped and tortured by my mob boss father, or in unrequited love with my best friend.”

“Lucky your mob boss father is dead and your best friend loves you unconditionally,” Renee says, smiling. Neil’s stomach jolts like he missed a step going down the stairs and he looks away, then looks back at her, then looks down at the marshmallows.

“I’d better bring these to him before he gets to Kevin,” he mumbles.

“Godspeed,” Renee advises, smiling harder, and Neil takes his marshmallows and goes.

-

Neil is buried in blankets on the couch when Andrew comes out of his room, dressed up to the nines and polished to a shine.

“You going out?”

“Yup.”

“Oh no,” Neil says, pointing to the two purring lumps currently weighing him down. “I can’t possibly get up.”

“Then stay,” Andrew tells him, lacing up his boots. “I won’t be long.”

Neil watches him pat his pockets for keys, phone, wallet and condoms. King makes a gauzy sound of protest when he moves, so he sinks back into the sofa cushions and strokes her skinny back until she settles. Sir gets up, stretches, and jumps down to see what Andrew is up to, winding around his legs as Andrew curses and chases him with a lint roller.

“Sure you don’t want me to come?” Neil asks, but Andrew only shakes his head.

“Stay,” he says again, pausing to gently nudge Sir away from the door before slipping out and closing it behind him.

Neil keeps stroking King, but she seems to pick up on the tension in his body and soon moves to the armchair instead, where she curls up with a sigh that seems too big for her tiny body. Sir sticks his nose into a few shoes, then trots aimlessly around the living room and finally jumps up on the armchair to flop down beside King and start grooming her.

Neil feels stale and listless, overheated under his blankets. He gets up and putters around the kitchen for a bit, tidying away a few dishes, making tea. It’s not the first time Andrew’s gone to the bar by himself, but Neil can’t shake the feeling that something has changed irrevocably, that maybe Andrew is trying to shield him from something now that he knows about the particular flavour of Neil’s fucked-up-ness.

He swallows a mouthful of piping hot tea without tasting it, then puts the mug down and goes into his bedroom. There, he strips angrily out of his clothes, then stands shivering in the middle of the room and tries to remember if they have a full-body mirror somewhere in the apartment.

There’s one in Andrew’s room, so Neil goes in there, tiptoeing guiltily around Andrew’s stuff. The mirror is on the inside of his wardrobe and he opens the door and stands in front of it, breathing in the clean, fabricky scent of Andrew’s clothes.

He doesn’t often look at his body.

The scars, of course, are still as ugly as ever. Some thick and ropey, some just uneven, discoloured patches of skin, some precise and some messy. His skin is a mottled patchwork of different skin tones, his body hair looks obscenely stark in the light spilling in from the door.

_Filthy, digusting boy._

_I can’t protect you if you make a mess._

_Do you want him to find us?_

_Clean it up. Clean it up. Clean it up._

How ironic it is, that his father might have left those scars on him but his mother is the one who really fucked him up in the end.

He closes the door and goes into the bathroom. There’s a jar of wax he keeps at the back of his side of the cabinet. He warms it in the kitchen, then sits on the bathroom floor and starts applying it, _warm wax cloth strip yank off_ , methodically ripping out the hair on his legs and arms, then moving on to his chest and groin. It _hurts_ , but he’s not technically doing any damage to himself, so it doesn’t count—people do this all the time. He just hasn’t done it in a while, so it hurts more, but he’ll get used to it again. Whatever he doesn’t manage to remove with the wax strips, he meticulously plucks out with tweezers, though his hands are shaking by now and keep losing their grip.

When he’s done, he rubs himself down with the antiseptic wipes. His skin is red and angry, and there are a few trickles of blood where he messed up. The antiseptic stings like hell and he makes a wounded sound, finally letting himself stop and breathe. His face is wet with tears, he’s surrounded by sticky, furry cloth strips, crumpled up wipes, blood-dotted tissues and smears of wax, he’s slick with clammy sweat and sucking in great, shuddery gulps of air and every inch of his skin feels like it’s pierced by tiny, invisible needles.

_Gross_.

He has to clean up before-

“Neil?”

He jolts, knocking over the almost empty jar of wax and sending it spinning across the tiled floor, until it careens into the cupboard with a loud clatter. He left the door ajar, because Sir whines if it’s closed even if he has no interest in coming in, but he’s too slow in kicking it shut.

“You left your tea in the kitchen,” Andrew says, sticking his head in. He’s about to say more but falls quiet as he takes in the scene, and Neil wishes he could shrivel up and stop existing.

“I- I was just about to clean-” he stammers, surging on his knees and starting to gather everything up feverishly, but his hands are shaking so hard he drops more than he picks up.

“Neil,” Andrew says, then again when Neil ignores him, then: “Stop.”

Neil freezes. Used cloth strips stick to his hands and he’s shaking, shaking all over. He can’t tell if he feels hot or cold anymore. Then he’s covered in something soft, a towel, one of the really big ones that Andrew has in his room, and two arms wrap around him over the towel, not touching but holding, stopping, pinning his arms to his sides.

“Stop,” Andrew murmurs again, “calm down.”

Neil hadn’t noticed that his breaths were coming out in little wheezy puffs. He buries his face in Andrew’s neck, disgust thrumming in his hands and arms, vibrating under his skin and rattling his teeth, his tears leaking into Andrew’s shirt, but still Andrew holds him. He feels like he’d be shaking apart if it wasn’t for Andrew’s arms keeping him together right now.

“Okay,” Andrew murmurs, over and over again. “Okay. It’s okay.”

“I feel so disgusting,” Neil whispers.

“It’s okay,” Andrew says into his hair. “It’s okay to be disgusting sometimes.”

That brings Neil up short.

_It’s okay to be disgusting sometimes_.

That’s not how it works, he wants to say. Who is Andrew to just decide that, anyway? That’s not the point, it’s not-

He’s not-

It’s not okay.

Is it?

He’s gone slack in Andrew’s grip, and Andrew uses the opportunity to peel the crumpled wax strips out of his hands. Then he grabs the bin from under the sink and stuffs everything in it, not even caring that he’s touching Neil’s gross bits, and when the worst is cleared away he helps Neil to his feet and into the shower.

While Neil is in there, he sweeps the bathroom floor, gets another one of his big towels and some clean clothes for him, and makes tea.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Neil says, drained and small, as he sits on the couch and wraps his hands around his mug.

“Say thanks or shut up,” Andrew tells him, sitting down beside him. He looks pale and tired, but he’s changed into looser clothes, a soft old band t-shirt that Neil likes, a comfortable pair of joggers.

Neil swallows.

“Thanks,” he forces out, washing it down with a sip of tea. “How was your night?”

“Neil,” Andrew says.

“I’m just asking. You don’t have to tell me.”

Andrew sighs, runs a hand through his hair and braces his elbow against the back of the couch, head in his hand as he looks at him.

“I don’t let them touch me,” he says, calm and steady, though his eyes never leave Neil’s. “I get them off, and then I never see them again. Some of them get it. Some of them don’t. But I don’t let them touch me. Ever.”

Neil looks down at his tea. He knows why Andrew is telling him this—he thinks there’s some sort of imbalance after scraping Neil off the floor, and Neil hates that, but he doesn’t know how to undo it. Lately he’s been all over the place, and he’s both squirmingly grateful that it’s Andrew who’s been there for him time and time again and seethingly uncomfortable about it.

“But you do it anyway,” Neil says after a long silence. “That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

“Doing something can still be a form of avoidance,” Andrew replies.

“Avoiding what?”

“Avoiding what I really want,” Andrew says, weighing the words carefully. Neil scratches his sore arm and Andrew reaches out and catches his hand, pulls it in his lap.

“So you want to get off with them?” Neil asks, trying not to let his hand twitch as Andrew touches his bare skin.

“No,” Andrew says. “They are irrelevant.”

“Oh,” Neil says, frowning.

He doesn’t feel like he’s avoiding anything. His problem can’t be avoided. Some days he manages to navigate the minefield without setting anything off. Some days he runs straight into his triggers just to get it over with.

His skin itches, and he tugs his hand out of Andrew’s grip to scratch it again. Andrew watches him, then gets up and goes into the bathroom, first aid kit in hand as he comes back.

“I’m fine,” Neil says immediately.

Andrew doesn’t dignify that with a reply. He digs around the box until he comes up with a small tub of skin-soothing cream and holds it out.

Neil scowls down at it, thinks about rubbing it into his irritated skin. It would probably feel better after, but he doesn’t think he can bear it—taking off his clothes again, looking at his body, touching his naked, hairless skin. He curls up tighter, pulling the sleeves of his shirt down until it covers his palms.

“No?” Andrew checks.

Neil shakes his head, not meeting his eyes.

“Do you,” Andrew starts, then hesitates for a brief moment. “Do you want me to do it for you?”

Neil breathes in, holds the breath in his lungs. Rolls it around like a sip of tea in his mouth. Breathes out.

“You don’t have to,” he forces himself to say.

“I am asking if you want me to,” Andrew says.

Neil presses his lips together and looks at the cream and then at Andrew’s face.

“Yes,” he mumbles, ashamed to even say it out loud, but Andrew only nods and holds out his hand.

“Give me your arm.”

He rolls the sleeve of Neil’s shirt up, careful not to brush his tender skin. Dips the tips of his fingers into the cream and spreads it gently over the red patches, and Neil has to stifle a gasp at the coolness of the cream, the intimacy of Andrew’s fingers touching him with such care. He bites his lip and watches as Andrew slowly works his way up one arm, then carefully rolls the sleeve back down and repeats the process on the other side.

“Legs?” Andrew asks when he’s done. Neil is trembly, almost feverish, but he still nods because it feels so good, and he’s dreading the aftermath where they go to bed separately and then don’t talk about this again.

He lies back against the arm of the couch and lets Andrew drag his legs into his lap. Once again, he rolls up the fabric of his pyjama pants and applies the cream with light, circling touches, working his way up from Neil’s ankles to his knees. The skin isn’t so sensitive here, and Andrew takes his time, massaging his calves which are tense from the long run Neil went on this morning. Pleasant little tingles shoot up his spine and Neil’s eyes flutter closed. He feels boneless and warm by the time Andrew asks if he can pull up his shirt, and he nods despite the stirrings of _no gross no ew don’t no don’t look._

He keeps his eyes closed as Andrew starts rubbing cream into his chest, taking special care with each and every scar. Some of them itch or feel tight sometimes and Neil does his best to ignore them, but Andrew doesn’t skirt around them, doesn’t even hesitate. His fingers paint soothing patterns over them, the broad, languid brushstrokes of his thumbs interspersed with bold highlighter streaks from his index fingers saying _this is you_ and _this is also you_ and _I see you, all of you_. Neil is floating, suspended in the no man’s land just outside of reality. He feels Andrew’s fingers carefully wiping around his nipples and something large and noisy threatens to spill out of him and make a mess, but he can’t bring himself to stop Andrew’s hands, so he just lies there and tries desperately to hold it all in.

“Neil,” Andrew says, not quite removing his hands but leaving them on his sides, warm and loose. “You tensed up.”

“I’m,” Neil says tightly, biting his lip, “scared.”

“Of what,” Andrew says.

Neil opens his eyes. Andrew is perched over him, backlit and soft, hands shiny with cream. Neil takes a deep, shivering breath that Andrew can definitely feel in his hands.

He swallows.

“I’m hard,” he admits. The words feel like bricks coming loose, but he’s lighter after getting rid of them.

“So?” Andrew says. Calm and steady and unfazed. Holding him in the palms of his hands.

“I don’t,” Neil says, frustrated, tugging at his own hair. “I…”

“It is a natural bodily reaction. It doesn’t mean we have to do anything,” Andrew tells him. “If you tell me to stop, I will stop.”

“I can’t give you what you need,” Neil blurts out, the frustration mounting for a moment before dropping away, leaving him hollow and exhausted. “I want to—everything, Andrew—I—but I’m…”

“I don’t need anything,” Andrew says. “I am right here, Neil. Just let me take care of you.”

The words send another burst of tingles through his body, from his fingers to his toes.

They’re so close now. Neil leaves his hands where they’re curled above his head and bravely tips his chin up.

“Will you kiss me?” he asks.

Andrew looks at him, looks at his open mouth, the way he’s spread out underneath him, softened and on display. Somehow, in this moment, Neil doesn’t feel disgusting.

“Yes,” Andrew says, “if you want me to.”

“Yes,” Neil echoes. “It’s a yes, Andrew.”

Andrew waits another second, as if Neil might change his mind, then he swallows the distance between them. He still holds himself carefully above Neil so that they’re joined only at the mouth, and Neil’s insides feel puckery tight but not like they’re trying to hold on to something anymore. Instead he lets himself leak, lets himself unclench, lets himself be opened up and tasted by Andrew’s tongue.

Andrew finishes with a small, chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth like a bow on a gift, then sits up and runs a hand through his hair and lets the other rest on Neil’s thigh, warm and heavy. His eyes take in Neil’s spent form—arms still useless above his head, shirt pushed up under his armpits, the noticeable tent in his pants—and Neil resists the urge to cover himself up and clears his throat.

“Thanks,” he says stupidly, because his brain is filled with static otherwise. Andrew’s mouth twitches up at the corner and he looks away.

“Will you let me finish up?” he asks, picking up the cream again. Neil, buzzed and pliant, nods, then nearly jumps out of his skin when Andrew takes the waistband of his pyjama pants and lifts it over his erection, tucking it down around his knees.

He feels awake and alert again, like his whole body is on pins and needles. Andrew doesn’t even look at his erection though, just scoops more cream on his fingers and starts smoothing it over his thighs, kneading into his muscles and digging his thumbs in where it hurts. Neil covers his face in both hands when he can’t stand to watch anymore, trying to catch the tiny huffs and groans of pleasure before they escape, and then Andrew very, very gently dabs some of the cream around his groin and Neil _whimpers_.

There’s a brief moment where Andrew’s hand brushes underneath his erection, catching on the tip that smears pre-come over his knuckles, and Neil wants to be swallowed up by the couch and disappear forever, but Andrew doesn’t seem to mind. He finishes with the cream, screws the cap back on, fixes Neil’s clothes for him.

“Okay?” he asks, scooting to the edge of the couch to give Neil some space.

Neil draws in a shaky breath and nods.

He feels Andrew get up, hears him gather their mugs and go into the kitchen. At the sound of water coming to a boil, Neil pries his hands off his face and pulls the blanket up under his chin.

He thinks, somewhat hysterically, that Dr Murphy will have a field day with him on Tuesday.

Andrew comes back with two cups of hot chocolate and a bottle of Baileys. He sets them on the coffee table, then sits cross-legged on the floor and pats around for the remote, which he finds wedged under the couch next to King’s favourite toy mouse.

“Andrew,” Neil says before he can switch the TV on, rolling on his side and then sitting up. “Come up here.”

Andrew pulls himself up onto the sofa. Neil waits for his nod before leaning against his side, still wrapped in the blanket, still uncomfortably hard underneath that protective layer, but content to just sit there with him.

_I don’t let them touch me_ , he’d said. _Ever_.

But he lets Neil touch him all the time.

“Are you going to go back to avoiding?” Neil asks him, accepting the mug of hot chocolate Andrew passes him and letting him pour a shot of Baileys in it.

Andrew is quiet for a moment, sipping his drink, then says, “No.”

“Okay,” Neil says, sliding a little lower. “Thanks.”

Andrew snorts softly and cups his hand around Neil’s face. He still smells a little like cream and Neil squirms, thinking of where his hands have been, before settling again. Andrew turns on the TV, clicking through the channels until eventually deciding on another episode of Bojack Horseman.

“We’re a mess, aren’t we?” Neil mutters.

“What else is new?” Andrew asks, shrugging.

Neil closes his eyes, and smiles.

-

“Him?”

“No.”

“Okay, what about him though? Oh, good legs. Probably a runner. You like those.”

“Not interested.”

Neil drums his fingers against the table and takes a sip of his ginger ale. The runner runs into Roland at the bar and is being thoroughly flirted with, but Andrew doesn’t seem to care. Neil lets his gaze drift over the room and sighs.

“Slim pickings tonight.”

“Neil.”

The arms around his middle tighten in warning. Neil huffs and leans back against Andrew’s chest, petting his hair and letting him nuzzle under his jaw.

“I’m gonna miss being your wingman,” Neil admits, tucking the trailing shirttails of a smile in tight. “Remember when I conned that guy into believing you were an astronaut?”

“You are a menace,” Andrew mutters into his neck.

“You’re the one who fell in love with me, so. Joke’s on you,” Neil mumbles. Andrew pinches his side and he squirms, feels the stirrings of something hard against his backside and stills. “Oh.”

Andrew opens his arms to let Neil slide off, but Neil just repositions himself until he’s not in danger of accidentally breaking his dick anymore. Andrew’s body has never been the problem. They’ve been working on getting Neil more comfortable with himself, but it’s slow going. So slow that some days Neil feels like he’s taking more steps backwards than forwards.

“Are you sure?” he asks once he’s settled again, and Andrew cups his waist in his hands and rubs their noses together.

“I told you,” he murmurs. “I have everything I want right here.”

Something warm shivers through Neil’s stomach and he has to wash it down with more ginger ale.

“Okay,” he says. Then: “How about another cat?”

“Absolutely not.”

“No, but, look,” Neil says, pulling his phone out and opening the tabs he’s prepared. “Look at this one. He’s so small and sad.”

“No,” Andrew says, without looking at it.

“You’re right, he’d probably not get along with King. This one, though.”

“Still no,” Andrew growls.

“Look at those eyes, Andrew. I dare you.”

“I said no.”

“But I’m so good at picking them.”

Neil looks at Andrew, doing his best to make his eyes wide and innocent and appealing.

Andrew shoves his face away.

“No more strays,” he growls. “That’s my final word.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, friends. Life is hard, especially at this time of year, especially especially in the middle of a global pandemic, so please be kind to yourselves whenever you can.
> 
> If you like the Moonix Brand TM, you're welcome to subscribe, follow me on [Tumblr](https://annawrites.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MoonixWrites) for the latest bullshit, or simply write me a message in a bottle stating your adoration and toss it into the ocean with a kiss for the waves.
> 
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